


oleander

by eijanaika



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Intoxication, M/M, Unsafe Sex, Victim Blaming, beck is a bad actor who can't keep the act up long enough, traumatic loss of virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 15:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20449541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eijanaika/pseuds/eijanaika
Summary: "Peter.” Beck’s voice is hoarse, pleading. “Don’t look at me like that. Don't make it harder than it has to be.”(Peter gives himself up; Beck takes what he wants.)





	oleander

**Author's Note:**

> Sony yanked the rights to Spider-Man, so I mourned the only way I know how: by writing filth and walking backwards into Hell.
> 
> Set during/after the bar scene in Prague. Please heed the warnings on this one. That Mysterio, folks.... he's just no good.

*

_Prague_

The lemonade here is sharper than the stuff back home, leaving a bitter taste in Peter’s mouth. Heavy in the pit of his stomach. Turning the world glossy around him, dulling and overloading his senses simultaneously. A feeling so unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome.

Still, he didn’t mean to drink so many of them. Wouldn’t have, if Beck didn’t keep on ordering them for him; didn’t have him downing round after round until his tongue goes fuzzy. He should really say no; it’s almost midnight. Way past time to return to his school trip. If he’s careful, he could slip back into his hotel room without anyone noticing, not even Ned. 

The only problem being that he doesn’t feel careful now; laughing too loudly, talking without thinking, spurred on by a frenetic energy bubbling inside him. He’s clumsy, yet invincible, even when he nearly jumps out of his skin when Beck’s knee brushes against his. 

Quentin Beck, the inter-dimensional enigma; both relatable and mysterious at the same time. For the past year, Peter’s been caught between two worlds; his fantastical and normal lives. Not good enough for either. Somehow, though, Beck makes him feel good enough. Like an equal; not a little kid, or a living weapon. Worthy of his own life, without thrusting the weight of the world onto his shoulders. 

_Like Tony did._ The comparison is inevitable, as hard as he tries to squash it. If he squints, he could almost pretend that it’s Tony sitting beside him, resurrected from the dead, bathed in yellow light. That it’s Tony’s knee resting against his, his face leaning towards Peter’s as he laughs, lips wet with warm beer. 

“That girl you like, the one you were telling me about—MJ? You gotta not worry about it. Just go for it. Trust me, she’ll be all over you.” Beck’s voice slips from Tony’s mouth, warm and light. “I mean, if I was a girl I’d totally go out with you.”

Peter chokes, his blush inevitable. _What is wrong with you?_ Tony was a mentor. A father figure. A _dead_ father figure, leaving behind a wife and a child. How could he ever think about him like that?

He blinks, hard, and Tony’s face transforms back into Beck’s, eyes wide with concern. “Sorry, was that too much?”

“Uhhhh, no, it’s fine. Not too much. Sorry, I just spaced out for a second.” He’s babbling now, but he doesn’t know how to stop, compounded by nerves as Beck surveys him. Searching his face for answers. “Do you feel kinda weird? I feel weird.”

“I feel drunk. Wait, do _you_ feel drunk?” Beck’s gaze narrows, eyeing the lemonade in Peter’s hand, then back at Peter. “Has that got alcohol in it? Geez, kid, you trying to get me in trouble?”

He laughs as Peter pales—nearly dropping his drink as he splutters apologies—but his eyes stay locked on his all the while. His gaze measured. Anticipating.

*

Beck kisses him in the alley behind the bar, stubble scratching against Peter’s cheeks, hands planted on the wall behind his head. Boxing him in.

Peter goes still. This isn’t supposed to be happening. They were supposed to be getting some fresh air before trekking back to Peter’s hotel room, squirreling him inside before any notices he’s drunk. Not _this._

This is completely unexpected—both the kiss and the way his body just melts into it, even as his mind grinds to a halt. The summer air is unbearably warm against his skin; Beck’s mouth wet and soft against his. 

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry.” Beck rips himself away like he’s been stung, hands clutching his forehead. “That was completely inappropriate, I’m sorry. Guess I’m drunker then I realize.”

Peter says nothing. He doesn’t have the language for the confused ache in his stomach. He wishes he’d had some warning, some time to prepare a reaction. To think before acting. 

In lieu of words, he allows instinct to take over, his body imbued with liquid courage. The kind that has him pressing up close to Beck, throwing his arms around his neck like a romance novel, although in truth his kiss is more fumbling than passionate. Closed-mouth and quick, ripping off the bandaid, _there, I did it._ No turning back now.

Now it’s Beck’s turn to be surprised. “Oh, Peter,” he murmurs into his mouth, in a tone that doesn’t help matters at all. Surprised, but not shocked. Wanting. Peter can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Peter, we can’t do this.”

His palms rest on Peter’s shoulders, like he wants to shake him, but instead he just holds him in place. He can’t come any closer, but he can’t pull away, either. “I wasn’t thinking straight. You’re too young, and I… I’ve got too much baggage. This can’t happen.”

What exactly _this_ is, Peter is unclear, but for whatever reason Beck’s words sound like more of a challenge than a refusal. Daring him to take the plunge. 

(Even worse, he’s underestimating him now, handling him with kiddie gloves. It’s even worse coming from Beck than it is from Fury.) 

“It’s fine,” he says, “really. I don’t mind.”

“You’re drunk.” Beck gives him a hard look, then lets him go. Turning his back on Peter, he walks out into the deserted street. For a horrible moment, Peter fears he’s going to leave him there, drunk and red-faced in the alley but he stops, shifting his weight from foot to foot, then looks back over his shoulder at him, eyebrow raised. 

“What are you doing? You wanna spend the night out here?” He shakes his head. Exasperated, but fond. “We gotta get you inside before you hurt yourself.”

“Sure,” says Peter, scrambling to follow him. “Where’re we going?”

*

_Where_ turns out to be a hotel, noticeably smaller than the one Peter is supposed to be sleeping in right now, the walls smoke-stained and splintering apart. The kind of place that doesn’t care about renting rooms to drunk teenagers; the lady at the desk barely glancing up from her phone as Beck shells out the cash, eyes fixed on the blurry silhouettes of Mysterio and Night Monkey.

It’s hard to believe that happened just a few hours ago. Time is moving so fast now, he can’t catch his breath. He barely remembers the walk to the hotel, too fixated on walking without stumbling, Beck’s hand on his elbow, steering him through the streets. Nothing if not chivalrous. Voice patient, _just need to find somewhere you can sleep it off. Can’t take you back to your teachers like this, can we? Don’t want to get you in trouble._

(He doesn’t mention the kiss. It’s like it never happened, and Peter isn’t sure whether to be grateful, or disappointed.)

And he really does believe that Beck means it: that they’re really just here to sober him up. Then, afterwards, he’ll help him slip back into his room without anyone noticing. That Beck’s going to take care of the whole thing. Take care of him. 

That’s Beck’s intention, Peter knows that. It isn’t what happens, though, no matter how much distance Beck puts between them, back against the peeling door as Peter flops onto the bed, fumbling with his shoelaces, biting his lip in concentration. Beck lets out a noise, like he’s suddenly short of breath, and when Peter looks up at him he sees his eyes are slits, accusing, his face crumpling around them.

“Peter.” Beck’s voice is hoarse, pleading. “Don’t look at me like that. Don't make it harder than it has to be.”

_Look at you like what?_

He doesn’t have to wait for the answer. Beck collapses onto him, one hand around Peter’s waist, the other cupping his jaw, tongue heavy in his mouth. It’s not that shocking anymore, and it doesn’t take long for Peter to kiss him back, only stiffer now; lips dry, his hands down by his sides. 

He’s nervous, despite the alcohol, thrown through a loop for the second time now. It’s so hard to figure out exactly what Beck wants from him when he’s not even sure what he wants. Despite his nerves, he’s already half-hard; his body making its decision quicker than his mind can. Not for the first time, he wonders if this is actually happening, or if it’s only a wet dream, his body passed out drunk back in the bar. 

“What’s wrong?” Beck leans back, rubbing his thumb along Peter’s jawline. Coaxing the words out of him. “I didn’t misread things, did I?”

“No.” His erection is proof enough of that. “I just…”

“Hey, it’s okay. Just tell me what you like.”

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know?”

“Really?” Beck frowns, then smiles. “I could always ask Edith.” 

He pantomimes putting on a pair of glasses, then taps a finger against his temple. “Hey, Edith, sweetie, show me Peter Parker’s search history. No, no, his _private_ search history….” His eyes widen in mock surprise, and he laughs. “Oh, seriously, Peter? You’re into _that?_ Wow.”

Peter laughs along with him, but his arms cross over his chest reflexively, as if shielding himself from Edith’s gaze. He knows Beck’s just trying to lighten the mood—that he’d never use Edith to invade anyone’s privacy unless he had to—but it’s still disturbing to think about. All that power in one person’s hands. A power Tony knew he couldn’t be trusted with. 

_But Beck can be trusted with it. He’s responsible. Just like Tony._

Seeing Peter’s face, Beck’s laughter evaporates. “Hey, hey, sorry. Bad joke. Guess the humor’s a little different on this earth.” He takes Peter’s wrists in his hands, uncrossing them gently. “Don’t worry, your browsing history is off limits. C’mere.”

The knot in his stomach loosens, his muscles unclenching. He lets himself be pulled into Beck’s arms, offering up his neck for Beck to run his tongue over. “Good, because it’s pretty boring.”

“Oh, kid, you’re anything but boring,” says Beck, the words sounding so obscene to Peter’s ears. Beck pulls him flush against his chest, body twisted at the waist to meet him. One knee between Peter’s legs, insistent against his erection. Peter isn’t prepared for the sound he makes, half squeak, half moan, louder when Beck’s hands snake beneath his shirt, rubbing at his chest. He can feel Beck’s cock hardening against his thigh, the weight of it making him dizzy. 

They’re moving so fast now, hurtling towards the end, but Peter can’t bring himself to stop. Before he knows it, he’s rocking messily against Beck’s knee, moaning as the friction multiplies, pleasure flooding his synapses. He’s so entirely unprepared to be touched by someone else, how sickeningly, maddeningly good it is. Almost too good. 

“Wait, wait, stop, please, st—” Beck halts mid-motion, but it’s too late. He’s already come undone. 

Doubling over, he clutches himself, as if in pain, trying to keep a straight face as his orgasm washes over him, body numbed with shame.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, fingers splayed over his face. “I’m really, really sorry, god, that’s so embarrassing.”

“Don’t worry about it. If anything, I’m flattered.” Beck’s voice is measured, betraying nothing. “Night’s still young.”

“Right.” Ignoring the unpleasant wetness spreading across his groin, Peter straightens and presses back against Beck, hands shaking as they skim his groin. He can feel Beck’s erection through his pants, larger than his own, and it’s more than a little terrifying. He’s quickly realizing he doesn’t actually know what to do, how exactly to please him. Should he touch him like he would himself; under the covers, pants around his ankles, fist in his mouth? It all seems so juvenile now, so unsatisfactory.

Beck lets him panic for a seconds before taking Peter’s hands in his, fingers curling them into fists. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh.” Peter frowns. “Don’t you want me to…?”

“No. That’s not really going to do it for me.” Only now does Peter notice Beck’s pupils, blown to hell, his smile twisted into place. “Can I be honest? I want to fuck you so badly it hurts. Sorry, I know you aren’t ready, but that’s the truth.”

“Oh.” Really, he should’ve anticipated this. They’re in a hotel room, for crying out loud. Where did he think this was going to go? He can’t help but feel immature. Stupid, even. The idea just felt so impossible up until now, still miles ahead of him. 

For awhile now, he’s imagined (hoped) losing his virginity with MJ; the two of them curling up together in his childhood bed, limbs hanging off the sides, neither of them knowing what the hell they’re doing. Figuring it out, then perfecting it, together. 

Beck, on the other hand, already knows exactly what he’s doing, if the fingers massaging the insides of his wrists are anything to go by. Waking his body up, the idea defrosting in his mind; Beck’s body flat against his, hands spreading his knees, mouth on his as he takes him. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Beck’s voice, deflated slightly, snaps him back down to earth. “Just forget it. It isn’t important.”

“No, it’s fine,” says Peter, a little too quickly. “I just didn’t expect—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself. I get it." Is it just him, or does Beck sound a little bit like Fury now; disappointed, almost patronizing. "The last thing I’d want to do is hurt you.”

“You can’t hurt me.” He's too drunk to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Doesn’t Beck know how infantilising it is to be talked down to like this? “I’m not, like, fragile, you know? Or I’d be dead already.” The words are rushing from his mouth now. He can’t be certain he’s making any sense, but he can’t stop himself, either. “Well, dead _again._ Technically, I already died once. So I think I could handle it.”

It’s meant to be a joke, kind of, but Beck doesn’t laugh. His brows are knotted, a hand on his chin, turning Peter’s words over in his head. “You’re not wrong. Hell, I guess you can handle a lot more than people give you credit for.”

“Yeah.” Only now does he realize he’s all but said _yes,_ so eager to prove himself suddenly, to impress Beck. Show him that he’s not the naive kid everyone thinks he is.

_Is it too late to back out,_ he wonders, now that Beck’s staring him down, swallowing hard, like he’s starving? Does he even want to? The answer is still murky, wavering in and out of focus. God, why did he have to drink so much?

It must be so obvious what he really wants, though, etched onto his face. Chest open, heart on-display for all to see, because Beck is on him again, making up his mind for him. He doesn’t have to say anything, just let Beck’s hands guide him onto his back, spread him apart at the knees, show him what to do. 

*

It hurts more than he’d thought it would. 

He bites his lip to stifle a cry as Beck pushes a slicked finger inside him, curls it, intimately uncomfortable. All the buildings he’s been thrown through, all the punches he’s taken, and none of it has prepared him for this; being worked open from the inside, sweat-stuck to cheap sheets.

“Feeling okay?” Beck bends over him, naked like Peter, his chest and belly covered in dark swathes of hair. “You need me to slow down?”

“…No.” To prove it, Peter arches his back, searching for a better angle. Finding none.

“Good, because now that I’ve seen you like this I don’t know if I could stop.” 

Again, Peter wonders what Beck could possibly see that’s so tempting. He doesn’t feel very attractive right now. Instead, he feels suddenly small, like a doll: carved up from porcelain, easily snapped open; a thought which does nothing to put him at ease, all his earlier bravado sapped out of him. 

“I just… can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Yeah, me either, kid.” There’s an edge to Beck’s voice now, a breathlessness. He adds a second finger, and then a third much too quickly. Stretching Peter further than he knew he could, leaving him burning around his fingers. Half of him wants to beg Beck to slow down; the other half wants it done faster, for Beck to hurry up and get it over with before he loses the nerve.

Thankfully, Beck is kind. Understanding. He doesn’t make him explain or beg for it, doesn’t even warn him before his withdrawing his fingers and lining himself up, Peter’s legs slung over his shoulder as he crowds in closer. 

“Just breathe. I’ve got you. You’re going to love this.”

Beck sinks into him with a sigh, pushing all the air out of his lungs. Flat against the mattress, his knees pressed back into his shoulders, exposed and stuffed full, twitching helplessly around Beck’s cock. 

“Oh, fuck.” Beck’s breath is hot against his neck. “You feel incredible.”

“So do y—” the rest is a wordless gasp as Beck starts to rock against him, his hip-bones jutting against the back of Peter’s thighs as he slides deeper into him, each inch pushing him further over the edge, threatening to finally break him. It’s too much to adjust to all at once, far too fast to get a good grip on, his eyes beginning to water. 

_Don’t ruin it,_ he tells himself. _Beck won’t want you if you’re bawling your eyes out._ He turns his face into the crook of his elbow, wiping his eyes furtively, forcing out breath through his nose.

“I know it hurts, I’m sorry.” Beck’s voice is soothing, but he doesn’t sound all that sorry, his hands clenching Peter’s hips. Holding him in place. “Just gotta loosen you up first.”

By the time he finally bottoms out, Peter is half-soft, white-knuckled around the bedsheets, muscles aching. “Hold on,” says Beck, “just bear with me, you’re doing so well,” and then he’s tilting his hips, adjusting the angle. 

Something sparks inside him, and Peter stills. Afraid any sudden movement will scare off the mounting friction as Beck’s cock rubs inside him, and then he thrusts just right against _that_ spot and Beck’s back arches off the mattress. 

There’s no denying the sensation now, his nerves liquefying in a matter of seconds. Pinned down like this, he has no choice but to just lie there and take it as Beck wrings full-bodied bliss out of him, turning his mind to mush. There’s a prickling heat simmering in his belly, spreading down his limbs then collapsing down on top of itself, heavy as molasses. He’s hard again, painfully so, leaking precome over his belly. He had no idea he could feel so much at once, and with so much force. Why the hell did no one warn him?

“Peter.” Beck has to repeat his name a few times, he’s so lost. “Get on top. Wanna watch you ride me.”

“Uh, okay.” Peter clambers onto his elbows, unsteady like he’s blackout-drunk, his body reeling with want. “What do I do?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Beck doesn’t wait for an answer before scooping Peter up into his arms, his back hitting the mattress with a soft thud. Peter’s straddling him now, knees hugging his waist. The angle is deeper now, Beck’s hands spread over his thighs, nails digging into his skin as guides Peter down onto his cock, setting the pace, fast and rough. 

Placing his hands on Beck’s chest, Peter steadies himself, curling his fingers through the dark hair there, shuddering as Beck moans beneath him. The world slips in-and-out of focus around him, Peter’s hips bucking out-of-sync with the drag and burn on his insides, thighs shaking in Beck’s grip.

“God, you’re incredible.” Beck grunts, his voice sounding like it’s coming from far away. “So good for me, Peter. So fucking tight.”

He almost wishes Beck wasn’t looking up at him like he is now; like he’s an angel, heaven-sent, something repackaged from his own personal fantasy. The attention is as unfamiliar as it is exciting, and it’s what sends him over the edge in the end. There’s plenty of warning this time; a swollen white-hot heat that builds and builds until it overflows him, vision greying out at the edges. When he finally comes, it’s like he’s back in outer space, floating in vacuum, body weightless and shuddering, Beck the only thing keeping him tethered to this world; his cock sheathed inside him, hands gripping him hard enough to bruise.

Back on earth, he can hear Beck laughing to himself. “God, you’re unbelievable. How’re you even real?” 

Then, under his breath; so quietly Peter has to strain to hear him, “of course Stark’s sidekick is a goddamn slut.”

The words slice through his cells, unclogging the haze in his brain. Peter blinks, sluggish, vision clearing, staring down at Beck who’s wearing that reverent smile, his eyes soft and light, like nothing has changed. 

Only, it _has_ changed. There’s no way he imagined that. No way he imagined Beck’s tone—the smug satisfaction layered beneath his words—as if he’s pulled the wool over his eyes, gotten away with something. Only, what? Peter gave himself up willingly enough. That much was clear.

Smothering the thought, Peter clings to the remnants of his orgasm, but the unease won’t leave him. A thread has come loose in his brain, exposing a lurid underbelly. All of Beck’s behavior is spilling out into the light now; the pieces fitting together all too easily. 

_Why did he mention Tony?_

Maybe he was just joking. Maybe he has a weird sense of humor. Or maybe he thought that was what Peter wanted to hear, that he liked being talked down to. Some people were into that, he knew that much, but not him. What had he done wrong to give off that impression?

He flips through the explanations in his head one by one, but none of them take. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s being used, soon to be discarded, like wet garbage. He feels translucent, flayed open, guts exposed under the flickering hotel lights. He wants to say something, to correct the record, but his mouth won’t open. He can hear his own voice in his head, high-pitched and watery: _why did you call me that? I’m not like that. Is that what you really think of me?_

It’s too humiliating to even consider; he’d sound like a child. God, when did he get so thin skinned?

Still, it’s not as exciting when Beck flips him onto his stomach, face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air, so he can fuck him from behind. Like this, he’s less of a porcelain doll and more of a blow-up, his only purpose now to be held down and undone. 

His orgasm has brought with it an agonizing clarity, sobering him up. He can’t ignore sounds of skin-against-skin, the unfamiliar soreness spreading throughout his body, the hobbling weakness in his knees. He’s badly over-stimulated, insides scraped and raw, and each thrust leaves him squirming against the sheets, trying to find a better position.

“God, kid, you keep that up and I’m not gonna last much longer.” Beck’s breathing hard now, goal-in-sight. “Want me to fill you up, baby? C’mon. Tell me what you want.”

A thousand warning signs flare in his mind. “Can you please not… don’t do it inside,” he says, but Beck gives no indication that he’s heard him. Instead, his thrusts become erratic, bordering on painful. Heart-rate jack-hammering, Peter reaches behind to nudge Beck’s stomach, slippery with sweat beneath his palm, only to be slapped away. 

“Hey now, c’mon.” Beck says, chiding him like a teacher, disappointed, but forgiving. He sweeps up Peter’s wrists in his hands and pins them above his head, his body turning to stone on top of him. Smearing him like an insect against the mattress, crushing the breath from his lungs. Shutting him up. “You got yours, didn’t you? Don’t be selfish.”

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles into the mattress, without really knowing what he’s apologizing for. There’s a creeping weariness taking over him now, an unfamiliar paralysis settling into his bones. He’s not helpless, so why does he feel like it? It’s not like he ever said _no._ If he’d wanted Beck to wear a condom so badly then why didn’t he saying something before they started? The thought just slipped his mind. That wasn’t Beck’s fault, was it, getting the wrong idea about him?

He hears Beck in his head, voice a low drone: _Jesus, kid, so many mixed signals. You told me you wanted this. Can’t handle it, huh? Figures._

Then, his own, soft and breaking: _if you tell him to stop and he doesn’t, what’re you going to do? What will he?_

Whatever the answer, Peter doesn’t want to know. He lies sedentary, breath rattling between his teeth. Praying it’s over sooner rather than later.

When Beck finally comes—buried deep inside him, groaning like he’s been wounded, like he’s the one in pain—it’s a relief. The panic can come later, Peter decides, when he’s back in his hotel room. When he’s safe. 

(Isn’t he safe now? There’s nothing wrong. _Don’t you dare cry._)

Beck runs a hand through his hair, catching on knots as he tilts his head backwards. His face looks as wrecked as Peter feels, but his smile is unrepentant, eyes dark, as he bends to kiss him. There’s a feral triumph in the way he does it, teeth skimming over his lower lip. Like he’s won a game Peter didn’t even know they were playing. 

_Of course Stark’s sidekick is goddamn slut._

*

Afterwards, Peter pulls his clothes back on mechanically, back turned to the bed, shielding his nakedness. There’s an unbearable itch across his skin, coupled with the need to hose himself down; to scrub away the stickiness between his thighs until the skin is pink and bleeding.

“You’re leaving?” Beck asks, still lounging on the bed. He does his best to sound disappointed, but it rings hollow. He’s gotten what he wanted; what does he need Peter for? 

“I have to.” He has to steel himself not to flinch when Beck comes up behind him, hands resting on his shoulders, like they’re back in the alley, before everything got flipped around. There are no butterflies in his stomach as he turns to face him now, only cold lead. “Gotta get back to my hotel before everyone wakes up.”

“Makes sense. Try and enjoy the rest of your summer, okay?” Beck smiles down at him; a stock-photo smile, conjured up from nothing, plastered on top of his real expression, whatever that is. “And don’t worry about Fury. I’ll keep him off your back.”

“Okay.” Peter wets his lips. “You’re not… you don’t have to tell him about this, do you?” 

_Please don’t tell him,_ is what he means to say, but that would be admitting something is wrong, and it isn’t, it it? There’s nothing he can pin a name to, at least. Only a wordless malaise, eating through his stomach lining. 

(Even if there was something wrong, he’d asked for it. Begged for it, even. He hears his own voice keening and damning in his ears,: _no, please, I’m ready, really. I want this. I want you._)

“Peter, don’t be stupid. I should be asking you that.” Beck’s voice is flat now, eyes focused mid-distance. Reading off an invisible script. 

“Do you think Fury would understand this? Please, think about it for a second. He already thinks you’re just a reckless little kid.” Beck’s fingers tighten on his shoulder blades, digging into the skin beneath. “You know he’s just looking for an excuse to keep you out of the Avengers forever, right? Don’t give him one.”

Is that worry on Beck’s face now? Fear that Peter might mess things up for him? It certainly isn’t guilt. 

Dully, Peter wonders if he’s going to have to fight him off.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I got it,” says Peter. Shows his belly, rolls over on command. “I really have to go now, okay? Or my teachers are going to wake up and come looking for me.” 

He tries to smile, but isn’t sure if he manages. It must be enough for Beck, though, or else he decides he just doesn’t care, because his expression breaks into a wide grin. “Yeah, of course.” With one final squeeze, he releases Peter. “Well, see you around, kid.”

One tight nod, and Peter is out the door, his shoulders hunched around his ears, arms crossed over his chest. Almost tripping over his own feet as he hurries down the hallway, the hair on his arms standing up as if he’s been electrocuted. 

No matter how much distance he puts between them, he can still feel Beck’s presence, lurking in the doorway, his eyes roaming his body. Taking him apart.

*

__

_Berlin_

Peter runs through the yawning green void, an army of Mysterios at his heels. It’s fake, it has to be, but his thoughts are white noise now, his body rigid with terror. 

He stumbles, once, and just like that it’s over. The Mysterios descend upon him, their fists curling against his stomach, their boots on his neck. In this moment, he almost believes that Beck really is from another dimension; a demon sent from hell to torture him. To expose him as the stupid imposter he really is, wilted on the floor, too weak and scared to stop him, again. 

“Should’ve seen your face, Peter. Practically begging me to fuck you.” Beck’s voice is low, hissing in his ear, as if he’s telling him a secret, but of course Peter already knows the answer. “So, so easy, but now you have to go and make it hard, huh?”

There’s a hand clawing at his ass, fingers scraping down his throat, but when he struggles, they soften, crumpling to dust.


End file.
